


I May Be Really Sick But At Least I'm Not Evil (You're Welcome)

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: I hope, M/M, Necrophilia, Some puns, Well - Freeform, grave robbing, i couldve gone that route but i didnt, its funny i promise, just mentioned and referenced a few times but no dead bodies were harmed, pete's the necrophile grave robber, prompt given by a friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 05:50:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8737288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Grave robbing was just kind of fun. It gave him full access to some dead bodies to have some, uh, fun with. It’s not like he could walk up to a morgue and ask to have a dead body. That would be weird.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wxnna9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wxnna9/gifts).



> i am SO sorry. a good friend of mind sent this prompt (listed below) and i just /had/ to write it. it was done in a surprisingly short amount of time. if you don't like the idea of necrophilia (nothing sexual is done here, i promise) you probably shouldn't read this. just so you know. patrick is alive tho lol 
> 
> prompt: “Person A is a necrophiliac and a grave robber. Person B was recently buried alive and is unconscious underground."

Pete wasn’t sure why he chose this particular grave. It was nothing special—freshly turned dirt, a rather new death date (today, if he was reading it correctly), and many bouquets of beautiful flowers. A well-loved kid, it seemed. He’s gone to similar graves before, but never this…new. Maybe it was the bitter romance of it—a grave robber robbing a new body, wreaking havoc to it, whoever it was.

Maybe it was the idea of a possibly still-warm body that was drawing him in. Maybe it was just a gut feeling. It would be a change, though, definitely. He was used to cold, heavy, dead-set bodies; ones that were gone from this world already. Long gone. (It was sick, he knew, being _this_ sort of person, but he tried to hide it well—only going out in the dead—hah! —of night, those sort of things.)

Grave robbing was just kind of fun. It gave him full access to some dead bodies to have some, uh, fun with. It’s not like he could walk up to a morgue and ask to _have_ a dead body. That would be weird.

 

Pete sat down in the grass near the grave. He noticed that it was considerably greener than anywhere else in the suburban cemetery he was in. He didn’t think much of it, but it was kind of weird. Possibilities floated through Pete’s sleep-deprived mind but none made any sense. It wasn’t his place to worry about the color of the grass when there was graves to be robbed.

The full moon—which gave a slightly creepy vibe to an already creepy cemetery—shone down intensely on Pete as he clambered to his feet. A cooler breeze tore straight through his black and purple hoodie and his sinfully tight skinny jeans. He shivered. _Maybe it was a ghost_ , he thought, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans. Then, he thought of the deplorable things he’s done with the dead and shivered again, harder. If it was a ghost of someone he… knew, then he better be worried.

Ridding himself of that particular thought, Pete grabbed his shovel, which was on the ground next to him. He pulled on his gloves and started his grueling work.

 He pushed the shovel into the freshly turned dirt of the grave. He didn’t bother to give a close look at the tombstone—what was the point? It’s not like gender mattered to him, anyway. What he did do was figure out the birthday of the person. The tomb read _April 27 th, 1984. _Good, they weren’t a kid. That would have been even more awkward for him. He didn’t do minors. (Uh, literally and figuratively.)

He continued to shovel for a few more minutes under the moonlight. It reflected off of his watch, which continued to tick on, reading an early 1:14 AM, and his shovel. He didn’t pay much attention to it, though. He had more important matters, as the coffin was slowly appearing.

Throwing the shovel down next to him, Pete kneeled over the hole and brushed off the top of the coffin. He didn’t need to use his shovel anymore, lest risking scratching the lid. From what he could tell, it was a deep, beautiful black color, lined with some sort of silver stud. He paused his work for a minute to admire it—this was one of his favorite parts. He loved to see the coffins; they always said something about the person (or family’s) tastes.

The coffin soon fully revealed itself and proved to be as Pete first noticed—black with silver stubs. Pete loved the taste of this kid’s parents (or family, or even themself. You never really know.) Pete hoped that one day his coffin will be this gorgeous. ( _Note to self,_ he thought, _write down what type of coffin you want and hope that someone finds it_.)

Pete pulled himself away from the glory of the coffin to grab his masks from his back pocket. Despite loving dead bodies, the smell wasn’t so amazing. Fastening one over his mouth, he reached into the turned-up grave and felt for the coffin latches. He made sure to move any dirt away—he didn’t want to _soil_ the body. He peaked over his shoulder to check for any other human life and popped the seals.

They—the seals—let out a _hiss_ of released air pressure. The coffin lid swung open easily—almost _too_ easy. From Pete’s experience this usually required a crowbar and some leverage, but he decided to ignore it. It was just a _very_ new grave, and hadn’t had any time to settle into the ground, nor has the dirt had time to force the coffin shut.

When, finally, the lid was fully open, Pete got full sight of the kid laying within. His breath caught. This kid—boy, whatever, it didn’t matter—was _gorgeous_. Absolutely, especially for being, well, dead. He has an amazing facial structure, beautiful, soft-looking hair and plump, red lips. (Thinking about it, that should have sent alarm bells ringing in his head. What dead person has _plump, red lips_?) He was the whole package.

Except, well, one thing that Pete noticed rather quickly and sent his head spinning.

He was _breathing_. His chest was slowly rising and falling.

Pete nearly toppled backwards from where he was kneeling. This kid—Patrick, he thought as he finally read the tombstone—wasn’t supposed to be breathing! He was buried! ( _Buried alive, obviously_ , Pete thought.) He was supposed to be stone cold, unmoving, chest _not_ making a steady trip up and down with each—now rattling, Pete could hear—breath.

Pete placed his dirty hands to his face, smudging his eyeliner (and getting dirt _everywhere!_ ). What was he going to do? It’s not like he can just close the coffin and replace the dirt, leaving this kid to die! He may be a sick person, but he wasn’t _evil_. He couldn’t kill someone. But, what to do?

Suddenly, without a second thought, Pete flung his hands down into the open coffin and gripped this kid—Patrick’s—still slightly warm hand. He could positively feel his heartbeat, pumping blood. Oh, dear. He wondered how long Patrick’s been buried here—obviously not long enough to suffocate, but long enough to fall unconscious. How long would it take to suffocate, that’s the question.

Also, what monster would bury him when he’s so apparently alive? For a split second, Pete thought that _maybe_ Patrick _was_ dead, and Pete’s just finally gone around the bend. Heck, he digs up graves and is into dead bodies—how much crazier could he get? Maybe this was all of figment of a fever dream? He unhooked his fingers from Patrick’s and slapped himself across the face, hard. He glanced back down, and, yes, Patrick was still breathing. This wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t his desire for a real, breathing partner manifesting itself in this poor kid.

Pete gripped the kid’s wrist tighter. He leaned back and used his own body weight and momentum as an attempt to pull him out of his grave. He did so with surprising success—Patrick wasn’t that heavy and not tall at all. From Pete’s estimate, he was probably about 5 foot 3 and 120 pounds. Not big.

Pete fell back into the grass once he pulled Patrick out. For a minute, all he could hear was his own heartbeat in his ears and Patrick’s loud, rattling breaths.

What in the world was he going to do? He _could_ wait for the kid to wake up, but who knows how long that could take? He can’t risk bring out here for much longer. Pete placed a gloved hand over the kid’s chest to reassure that he was breathing and that his heart was beating. It was steady and strong, reverberating up through Pete’s hand. He took another deep breath.

His eyes shot open as he got an idea. He could just bring Patrick home! He didn’t think that Brendon—his roommate—would mind _that_ much. It’s not like he wasn’t aware of what Pete did (even if he thought it was extremely weird). Also, it wouldn’t be the weirdest thing he’s ever brought home. (See: a drunken and stoned guy nursing/holding a “sick” kitten that happened to actually be a sock. His name was Joe and he had left soon after, although he and Pete still keep in touch.)

Pete stood up and brushed off his jeans. While still keeping a close eye on Patrick, he proceeded to close the coffin and refill the grave site. The smell of fresh dirt calmed his nerves and he worked in near silence.

As his watch beeped 3:00 AM, he finished. The kid was still out cold to his left. Thank God. Pete quickly removed any evidence that he had been there and picked up the kid bridal-style. He’s got this.

 

He walked to his car through the misty grave yard. A few times, the kid moaned in his sleep, but Pete shushed him. The last thing he wanted was to be heard _or_ seen. That would _not_ end well.

Finally getting to his beaten up Honda, he strapped the kid into the back and began the quite drive to his and Brendon’s apartment. It wasn’t far—maybe 2 or 3 miles—but tonight that felt like an eternity. When they pulled up into the parking lot, Pete breathed a sigh of relief. They’re almost there, without being caught.

Several painful minutes later (the stairs were hell to carry Patrick up), Pete slowly unlocked the door. He carefully carried Patrick in. Brendon was asleep on the couch, seemingly after playing some video game. Pete hoped that he hadn’t been waiting from him to come home.

He softly shut the normally creaky door and debated where to put the kid. The couch wasn’t an option, since Brendon was passed out there. His silent debate between his bed and the floor was broken by Brendon’s confused and sleep-laden voice.

“Pete? What the heck are you carrying? _Who_ the heck are you carrying?” Pete stayed silent. Brendon turned from his position on the couch to get a better look. “A kid? I thought I told you to never bring home any dead people again! It creeps me the heck out and is, like, really illegal. _Pete._ ” Pete giggled.

He shook his head. “Brendon, he’s _alive_. Breathing and crap. Not a dead guy.”

“Did you not find him in a _grave yard_? From what I know—and believe me, I may be stupid, but I’m sure that I’m right here—grave yards are for _dead_ people.” Brendon sank back into his seat, head in his hands.

“He was buried alive, Bren. _Alive_. He’s breathing,” Pete insisted. “Come here—feel his chest. A heartbeat.” He gave Brendon a ‘come hither’ motion.

“Alright. Don’t you _dare_ be joking, or I’ll kick you in the balls.” Brendon stood up (Pete admired his shirtless body. They’re just friends, but, eh, who said you shouldn’t admire a friend’s hot body) and sleepily stumbled over to where Pete was standing with Patrick. He placed his hand on Patrick’s chest. “ _Holy crap_ ,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, _I know_. I had to bring him back—I just couldn’t leave him to die.” Pete, taking the opportunity of an empty couch, laid Patrick down. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“Neither do I,” Brendon replied, running a hand through his hair. He left out a deep sigh, and Pete moved to stand back next to him. “Did you get an identification?”

“Yeah,” Pete said, glancing back up at Brendon. “Patrick Stumph, born April 27th, 1984. Was buried today.”

They lapsed into silence, both unsure of what to say. They stood, together, in the darkness of their living room, where the only light was from the TV. The room seemed to be closing in on Pete.

The silence, now comfortable, was suddenly broken by a meek and quiet voice, sounding from their threadbare couch.

“Uh, where am I?”


End file.
